


Sonnet 19

by TheRogueHuntress



Series: Soulmate AUs [10]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Dom Cobb Being an Asshole, F/M, Love, M/M, POV Eames, Romance, Sometimes I really feel like tags can give away the plot, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 22:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15592599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRogueHuntress/pseuds/TheRogueHuntress
Summary: Every person has the name of their mortal enemy on one wrist and their soulmate on the other. Sometimes, it's hard to tell which is which.





	Sonnet 19

_ London 2009 _

The night is warm, but there’s a cool breeze that Eames feels across his face to that seems to have come in sweeping off the Thames. With it, the heat’s actually bearable, unlike during the day. Who’d have thought he’d be sweating like a pig in England, of all places? The heatwave seems endless – but he loves it. He’s not complaining, not really.

In the distance, Arthur steps out of the warehouse they’re working from. He’s either not seen Eames, or is pretending he can’t. Arthur is a bit funny like that.

Arthur’s stressed; the job is dull and the architect is a disaster. However, Eames only knows this because he sees Arthur pull a packet from his front pocket and light a fag, the red cherry a soft glow in the distance. He only ever smokes when he’s trying to keep his hands busy, cupping them around the cigarette instead of someone else’s throat.

Eames jams his hands into his trouser pockets and saunters over. Arthur glances up when he nears, resignation in his eyes, but not surprise.

“Eames,” he grunts in greeting and then takes another long drag.

“Darling,” Eames replies. As always, a flicker of irritation crosses Arthur’s face before he schools it blank.

Eames’ watch is heavy on his left wrist. It’s a gaudy gold Gucci timepiece that he lifted from some wanker at Heathrow Airport. It covers a name on his wrist that he’s 90% certain is Arthur’s real name. That remaining 10% is why Eames has kept his mouth shut, however. It’s a dangerous game he plays, forging and forgery, and dangerous people he plays with.

The name on his other wrist is a man that squeezed Eames for all he had and then left him for dead. Eames hates him with a passion. Enemy on one wrist, mate on the other, and often impossible to tell which is which.

Eames wonders what names Arthur wears beneath the cuff of his sleeves. Does one of them say  _ William Eames _ in his lazy, frivolous scrawl?

Arthur flicks the cigarette to the ground and steps on it with the toe of one well-polished, black brogue. A jolt of lust spikes through Eames. Arthur’s neat, compact, efficient… everything Eames isn’t, really.

“Ready to go back in?” Arthur says. He sounds weary. Eames wants to step forward, sweep him into a hug, take him away from these miserable people and this rubbish job.

“I was born ready,” Eames says instead. He smirks at the sceptical expression on Arthur’s face, turns on his heel and enters the warehouse.

* * *

 

_ Havana, then Los Angeles 2013 _

Eames is lying on a beach lounger when his phone rings, soaking up the rays. “Yes,” he snaps, annoyed that his sunbathing has been interrupted. 

“I’ve got a job for you,” says the voice on the other end of the phone. It’s Arthur.

“Darling!” Eames cries, immediately perking up. He sits, staring out to sea. The ocean gets hazier the further out he looks, until it merges with the horizon and the pale blue sky.

After a pause indicating that Arthur is distinctly irritated by Eames’ chosen greeting, he says, “LA – two days.” He hangs up.

“Lovely speaking with you too,” Eames mutters to empty air. He digs his toes into the sand and thinks about how long this leaves him to catch a flight.

He bloody hates LA. There’s something niggling in the back of his mind about  _ why _ exactly he hates LA and it’s not until he arrives at the warehouse that he realises what it is.

Dobb Cobb lives in LA. Right now, however, Cobb is busy pining Arthur to the wall, their faces too close for it to be anything but intimate. Eames feels as if he’s been struck by lightning. Was this happening during the Fischer job? No – Eames definitely would have noticed. That means it’s new. Perhaps this is how Cobb kept Arthur by his side when Arthur no longer felt obligated to get him home safe to his children.

Cobb brushes his thumb over Arthur’s left wrist. Both wrists are bare, the first time Eames have ever seen him so unbuttoned. He’s too far away to see the names, more fool him. 

Eames fishes the phone Arthur called him on and places it silently on a table by the side. They’ve not yet noticed him and he doesn’t want them to. Arthur tilts his head, leaning closer to Cobb. Eames watches them exchange a chaste kiss. He turns and walks away.

He bloody hates LA.

* * *

 

_ Prague 2018 _

Rumours and half truths travel hard and fast through the dream-share grapevine. Apparently, Cobb has the same name on his left wrist as he does on his right. Apparently, he’s been lying about it. Apparently, there’s truly no one left in the business who will work with him now. 

Eames could have told them all that without having looked at either of Cobb’s wrists. He’d bet anything that Mal was the same.

However, he’s not said a word. After all, who would believe  _ him? _ Someone else has blabbed the truth. His minds spins as he thanks Mindy for the gossip. He returns to the apartment he’s renting for the night, kicking off his shoes at the door and tossing his jacket on the couch.

“Eames,” Arthur says from the darkness of the room. Eames jumps nearly a foot in the air and barely holds back his shout. It’s embarrassing. He’s been caught with his metaphorical pants down.

He flicks on the light and freezes. There’s a gun on the table beside Arthur and his expression is as inscrutable as ever.

“Come here, Eames,” Arthur says. Eames takes a step then shakes himself. He plants his feet.

“What are you doing here, Arthur?”

Arthur purses his lips and places a hand on the gun, a single finger curling around the trigger. The threat in his gaze is unmistakable. Eames continues forward until he’s standing just between Arthur’s spread legs. Even though he’s taller and broader and looming in a menacing manner, Arthur is the more frightening of the two of them.

Arthur reaches forward, delicate fingers curling around Eames’ wrists. He unbuckles the watch on Eames’ left arm, a battered Christopher Ward this time, revealing the name  _ Michael O’Davies. _ Eames had taken a knife to it several years ago and Arthur traces the outline of the pale scar with a fingertip. Then he turns to Eames’ other arm and unwinds the leather wristband that conceals his second mark. Eames holds his breath.

“Giovanni Antico,” Arthur says aloud, his Italian accent perfect. He says the name with the kind of disdain only a man who’s lived with it all his life would know. His lip curls and then he jerks away. In a hasty, perhaps rash manner, he turns back his own cuffs.

_ Dominic Cobb _ graces one wrist, while  _ William Eames  _ graces the other.

“Ah, pet, did you fall for him?” Eames says, sorrow in his heart. He should kill Cobb for this. Arthur’s gaze is distant, so Eames returns to tracing the patterns of his own handwriting on the other man’s wrist. He can’t look away from his name, written there on Arthur. He feels giddy, like perhaps he ought to take up poetry again, and write the nineteenth sonnet.

He thinks this might explain all the pent up anger and confusion inside Arthur, and so, so much more. He hopes he can sooth away that pain.

“Eames,” Arthur says eventually, choking around a sob. He stands abruptly, clutching at Eames’ wrist, so tight it hurts. His eyes are bright, his lips tightly pressed together.

“Oh, darling,” Eames says, pulling him in and holding him close like he’d wanted to all those years ago. “I’ve got you.”


End file.
